How's the Pain?: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier

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СКАЧАТЬ he undid everything he had done and it would all go to pot. It was only during his military service that he finally achieved something, passing his driving test first time. It was the best day of his life – well, not the whole day. That night, after celebrating with some mates, he had gone joy-riding in a Jeep and ended up inside for two weeks. It was still a good memory though. The best. In truth, he had no other memories to speak of, just little things like the trout, Gamblin’s dick, random bits and pieces that resurfaced now and then for him to toy with in his head, the way a baby plays with its feet. Mostly, though, each day just wiped out the day before.

      A fly landed on his knee. It was young and quivering with energy. In a fraction of a second, Bernard held it captive under his hand. He could feel it batting around inside. It tickled. Slowly he spread his fingers and the insect zigzagged away. When it came to catching flies, he was unbeatable. Shame you couldn’t make a career out of it.

      He stood up and looked for a really flat pebble. Skimming stones was another of his talents. The pebble glanced across the surface of the water like a flying saucer, bouncing six times before reaching the opposite bank. It was a hot day. He took his clothes off and lay in the current, holding his injured hand up towards the sky like a periscope so as not to get the bandage wet. He wasn’t thinking about anything now. It was just nice to dissolve into the water.

      Leaning back in his chair with his head tilted back, Simon smoked a cigarette and watched Bernard tucking into his daube of beef, his nose almost in his plate. It was a fascinating sight. The young man used his fork like a dagger, stabbing it into the meat to hold it in place. Then he cut off big chunks which vanished into his mouth with mechanical regularity. As he swallowed each barely chewed mouthful, his throat and shoulders shuddered slightly before he began all over again, taking the occasional glug of water to wash it down.

      ‘You’ve got quite an appetite!’

      ‘I always do. I’ll eat anything – and the food here’s damned good, isn’t it?’

      ‘It is very good, yes.’

      In no time at all, the plate was wiped clean, sparkling as if it had just come out of the dishwasher.

      ‘Aren’t you going to finish yours, Monsieur Marechall?’

      ‘Help yourself!’

      ‘I could eat beef stew out of a bin.’

      Chez Mireille was one of those bijou restaurants found in all small provincial towns. The walls were painted blue and pink, with intricate gilt patterns to give a touch of class. For passers-by peering in, the cosy scene was framed by lacy curtains with satin tiebacks. Mireille, a busty blonde of a certain age, glided seamlessly from table to table checking that everything was to her customers’ liking. She was like the little dancer inside a music box, spinning in time to the tinkling of a Mozart tune.

      Just like the wedding parties in Parc Saint-Jean that morning, everybody in the room was clean, attractive and pleasant. They spoke little and quietly. A dropped teaspoon caused quite a stir. Here, too, the average age veered towards the top of the scale; Bernard was the odd one out. He had dressed for the occasion, which is to say he had swapped his sloppy tracksuit for a pastel shirt, a navy-blue jacket that was slightly too short in the sleeve and a pair of dark-grey trousers. He could not believe his luck, and sat beaming at everyone and everything – even the water jug and bread basket. He had passed Chez Mireille countless times but never dreamt of going in. Now here he was lapping up every second and it was a pleasure to see. Pushing away the second plate as spotless as the first, he leant back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. Watching him, Simon was riveted.

      ‘Cigarette?’

      ‘No, I don’t smoke.’

      ‘And you don’t drink wine either?’

      ‘No. It makes my head spin, I don’t like it.’

      ‘Very sensible. Now tell me, what did your job involve?’

      ‘We made clamps.’

      ‘What for?’

      ‘I dunno, just clamps. Big ones, small ones, medium ones. You had to make a certain number in an hour and then they got packed up and sent who knows where.’

      ‘Wasn’t that rather repetitive?’

      ‘It’s a job. Once you know what you’re doing it’s just mindless. Pretty cushy really. What about you, what do you do?’

      ‘Pest control. Getting rid of rats, mice, pigeons, fleas, cockroaches, that sort of thing.’

      ‘Is it going well?’

      ‘Very. But I’m getting on a bit. I’m thinking of selling up and retiring.’

      ‘Lucky you, retiring! Doesn’t suit everyone though. There was this old guy at the factory and for his retirement present we got him this beautiful spinning rod. He never stopped going on about all the fishing trips he was planning when he stopped work. Two weeks later, what did he do? Threw himself into the river. As for me … well, I wish I was retired already.’

      ‘And what would you do if you were?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘Don’t you have any interests? You wouldn’t want to travel?’

      ‘No. I’d just like to have enough money to do nothing.’

      ‘You’d get bored.’

      ‘I don’t think I would. When you’re out of work and broke, you’re bored because you spend the whole time thinking about how you’re going to get some money. But if you’ve already got it, doing nothing’s easy.’

      ‘Don’t you like reading or going to the cinema?’

      ‘I’ve got a problem with books. When I get to the bottom of the page, I can’t remember the beginning, so it takes me ages to get through them. And I fall asleep in the dark at the cinema. So what are you going to do when you retire?’

      ‘I don’t know. I like the sea. And boats.’

      Mireille brought over the cheese trolley. Bernard took a wedge of everything. Simon ordered another bottle of Cornas.

      ‘Can you believe how many cheeses they’ve got? It’s insane. I haven’t even heard of half of them. Is that all you’re having, Monsieur Marechall?’

      ‘I had some Gruyère.’

      ‘You’re just like my mother, you eat out of your glass. So you’re into boats, are you? Model ones or ones you go on?’

      ‘Ones you go on, as you put it.’

      ‘And where would you go, on your boat?’

      ‘Anywhere. The best bit is setting sail.’

      ‘I’m the opposite – the best bit for me would be getting there. So you’ve been on a lot of boats then?’

      ‘I’ve travelled a fair amount. What I’d like is just to sail from island to island, without following a plan.’

      ‘Nice are they, islands?’

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